


The Dreaming: Theme and Variations

by C-chan (1001paperboxes)



Series: The Dreaming [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-11 23:43:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3337055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001paperboxes/pseuds/C-chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It may have been the beginning. It may have simply been the catalyst. But Jean Prouvaire had dreams, and he held them close to his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jehan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estelraca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/gifts).



> This note was originally placed up here but prudently removed to help protect anonymity. Now that we're no longer anonymous, and you're going to know who wrote this anyway, I may as well go ahead and say it.
> 
> I somehow managed to be assigned to one of my favourite people ever for this exchange, which somehow seems far too fitting for Valentines day. Estel, you can probably tell exactly what part of your prompt grabbed me and made me want to run with it, and I bet you won't be all too surprised. I may want to explore other parts of your prompts, or some of the things mentioned in here in more detail later on (actually, there's a continuation of this already writing itself in my mind; see the series marker on this fic) but this fic is what it is. 
> 
> Let it be said that you are an amazing person and an amazing writer and an amazing, amazing Estel, and I love you so much.
> 
> This fic may best be read as "entire work" but should read fine chapter by chapter as well. I hope you enjoy.

Jean Prouvaire had dreams. Formless, shapeless echoes of voices that he could almost name, of places he never could have been. They were altogether too familiar, and yet altogether foreign. They came back to him in graveyards, holding the same sort of longing, and when silently drinking with his friends, observing but not interacting with each of them and finding a resonance that he could not quite place in their interactions. They brought the longing out in his poetry, and made him want to explore every instance and every possible definition of what they could be, and what they could mean.

It may have been the beginning. It may have simply been the catalyst. But Jean Prouvaire had dreams, and he held them close to his heart.


	2. Evan

Evan was four when the nightmares began.

Nightmares of blood and battles. 

Nightmares of men that reminded him far too much of his brothers. 

Nightmares that always ended with darkness and shouts and loud noises. 

Ben had let him sleep with him for a week after they’d started, and he’d still woken up every night to sob into his biggest brother’s arms. Ben couldn’t stop the dreams, but he could help when they came. Ben could remind him that they were here, at home, together, and that nothing bad was going to happen. Not tonight, at any rate. And even if something was to happen, Ben promised that he was big and strong and scary enough that he could take care of anything that came their way. 

And so, even knowing that the nightmares might yet again return, Evan always felt safe and protected in his brother's arms.


	3. Sioned

Sioned’s dreams were rarely in Welsh, nor were they in English. Instead, they belonged to a kaleidoscope of languages, some more familiar than others. 

In writing down what she could remember, she started to see patterns; bits that belonged to the same language, or family of languages. Some were Romantic, others Gallic, Germanic or Slavic. Others still were in languages so foreign that even her phonetic spelling was guesswork, and even though they sounded nothing alike, they reminded her of the Orient.

Bronwen always complained when Sioned talked in her sleep, which happened fairly often as her dreams drifted from place to place and from language to language. However, it took a long time and a lot of reviewing of what her bunkmate had said to realize that she may have understood bits and pieces of the dream languages.

She’d never actually asked Bronwen if it meant anything to her. But maybe tonight, once her friend made her way back to the bunk beneath hers, she would.


	4. Vanya

With Vanya, it was images, colours, and tastes that came back. It was never anything large, no feasts or detailed recipes, but snatches and whiffs: just enough to make him crave to find a thing that matched the next day. As such, his kitchen was generally a mess, filled with ingredients from the world over. Sometimes he could track down a recipe and sometimes he couldn’t, but the research and exploration filled his free time with activity, and his mind with ideas of the world far beyond his hometown. 

Thankfully, his housemate Boris had a strong stomach and was generally up for whatever culinary adventure the day brought, whether it was trying to locate a durian or figuring out how to make lutefisk without it being _too_ caustic. When other friends were around, he tried to keep the food simpler, if still eccentric: gravy and cheese piled on fried potatoes, curry with rice and naan paired with dessert soups and lemonade.

There were still a few tastes that he was yet to find altogether: one of them sticky and sweet and cold, another a mix of tastes and a little spicy, but with ingredients he only knew by remembered taste and texture, rather than any sort of name.

It intrigued him that the tastes were tangible and achievable, so often tied to real food, and he wondered what that meant; what his dreams were trying to tell them. Perhaps they were echoes of things he once knew, or perhaps he was simply meant to give up his work in the name of fusion cuisine. He’d shared this aloud one day as he and Boris were making a mountain of pancakes, blini, crepes, and hotcakes to see how the different countries’ versions compared. Boris had shrugged, said something about his dreams involving punching idiots, though sometimes he had interesting weapons, and fashions that were out of place and yet glorious (and that they needed to find a bolt of Chinese silk with dragons one of these days). Perhaps, they’d decided, the dreams were normal, meant to inspire them towards new ideas outside of what they’d already known.

And so they lived their days, a mix of miss-matched colours and tastes, vivid and vital to both of their palates, even as they seemed so out of place to the world around them.


	5. Siobhan

Sometimes, when she woke up, she couldn’t remember who or where she was. Or rather, she (he? — no, she — she’s a girl right now) remembered too well, with hyperrealistic information from the dreams overlapping with reality. She felt like she should be slightly taller, her fingers longer and her skin rougher and slightly more of a yellowish beige. She felt like she was ripped away from the brink of death, over and over again. Like she is missing people dear to her, so dear to her. Like she needs to find them. Like she already has. Like something is missing and it all seems so real like she’s already found it and yet she doesn’t even know what it is. She felt like she’s everyone and no-one and she’s not sure what to make of it except a mess, and she’s not even sure she can be certain of her own name, or his, or theirs.

On those days, she often ended up in Brianna’s flat, clinging close to her, even as her mind gave echoes of the man (men; men and women; so many different people) that she — that they both used to be. 

Brianna, dear Brianna knew not to start with questions, but to remind her of who she is, of what they did yesterday, and what the plans were for tomorrow. Brianna, would will remind her of her own name when she needed, as often as it took, and stay up even later than usual watching horrible movies to help take her mind off afterwards.

Brianna, who always seemed to understand everything somehow. Brianna, who was a lifeline when she was cut adrift, who was a counsellor and confidante both. Brianna, who somehow knew just how she felt, who might be someone just like her: a spirit with too many homes, but here, in this life, now.

One day, when the dreaming is less shocking, less severe, she hoped to discuss the dreams with her in ways that will make sense, and ask questions about what might be their truths. For now, another night of little sleep and far more good company lay ahed: something of which she was very glad, especially knowing that all she’d see if she closed her eyes her eyes was _him_ and _them_ again.


	6. Ianto

Ianto’s dreams led to paintings and poetry: murals of rustic scenes, historic cityscapes, and abstract art with splashes of red over blues, blacks, and whites. When it came out in words rather than colours, it could run anywhere from political to pastoral and from inspirational to grave and melancholic. He often did his best brainstorming and rough work first thing in the morning, translating everything he could remember from the fleeting dreams into sketches and scratches: the beginnings of his next masterpiece.

Of course, the best completions always happened late at night, when he could mix his tired contemplations with the memories of the dreams, and turn them into something new and all his own.

Still, sometimes, Ianto just couldn’t or didn’t want to cope. The dreams, while inspirational, were vivid and unpredictable. Sometimes it was just a family dinner or reading by candlelight, but sometimes it was of everyone dying, and events leading up to his own execution. Sometimes, somehow even more odd, it was him falling into bed with people who were and yet weren’t his friends, and even though he’d never felt romantic inclinations toward them in the waking world, here bonds were close and moods were steamy, and in the dreams he had no problem giving over and giving in. Sometimes, especially on days when he could feel his mind veering more towards the depressive, he just couldn’t put up with the wildcard grab-bag that was his vivid dreamscape, never knowing if tonight’s would be benign, painful, touching, terrible, or embarrassing. Sometimes he just needed some form of control.

Really, that’s the main reason why he started to get into coffee. A few strong cups could keep him up a few more hours, or pick him up after a restless night, and help him get through while keeping the chances of dreaming to a minimum.

It also lead to a series of inside jokes.

“So when do we get to change your last name to Jones?” Basel asked one day as Ianto was staring idly into the coffeemaker, watching it slowly drip his third pot of the morning into existence. “More importantly, does that mean I get to be Jack?”

Ianto considered that for a moment, and then made a face.

“That’s slightly more of a Keefey thing, isn’t it?” he mused, “and besides, then I’d have to fall in love with him and die tragically young. On the bright side, it would mean that my art might suddenly skyrocket in price, but then we wouldn’t have each other anymore. And really, I’d rather live as a stereotype of a starving and slightly bipolar artist than be one that died before his time, no matter how Romantic the latter would be.”

“Fair enough,” Basel replied with a shrug. “Still, I’d travel through time and space with you. Sounds like our kind of adventure, huh?”

“It does indeed,” Ianto agreed, reaching for a second mug so that they might discuss their hypothetical journey over freshly brewed cuppas.


	7. John

“Every time,” John muses, his head still pulsing as he comes back into himself in this time and place. “Every time I’ve remembered before I’ve awaken. And every time there’s been more to remember, more lives, more bits of knowledge. It’s like a puzzle that I’m trying to put together: there’s more pieces every time, and I’m never sure if I’ll have them all, but somehow I know they make up me.”

“That’s pretty much it,” Berk agrees, helping John remove the wiring that had allowed him to monitor his friend as he slept over the past few hours.

“And it feels so weird to dream about dreaming, and sometimes dream about dreams about dreaming, but somehow it makes it more real, that they went through the same things that I did. That we did. And that I was them. Or will be them? I’m still not sure how linearly these things work, and I’m not convinced that we can only dream backwards. I mean, what’s the fun of exploring lives if we can’t go forwards as well as back? The subconscious surely has the power to do that; our minds are amazing organs, after all. Or maybe it’s that our lives aren’t always chronologically in order, so I could be remembering things that haven’t happened yet as our bodies perceive time, but have as our spirits do.”

“It’s possible,” Berk allows with a shrug. “And you’re going to have to tell me all about your theories. Maybe over some beer and wings.”

“Are you kidding?” John asks, and he manages a bit of a laugh, glad to be going back to banter even with his mind still reeling from all he was able to pick up, “This calls for a long period of sobriety to document all I can remember, and then a good dose of absynthe to see what I can make of the dregs.”

“Tea then?”

“Yes,” John agrees, “and maybe some coffee.”

“But you don’t—“

“Apparently I used to. A lot. And that memory, or that ghost of me, or whatever you want to call it — _he_ — would appreciate a taste.”

“Fair enough,” Berk agrees. “Anything else before we head off?”

“Just to say that we need to do this again,” John offers, “and maybe get you hooked up next time. It’s not fair that we only get to learn about my past, after all. I for one want to see what sort of dream-memories you’d have when under like this.”

“We’ll have to find out,” his tall friend agrees. “But for now, I’m off to see about hot drinks and absinthe spoons, and maybe have something to drink to your memory. And you’d better get writing so we have a first-hand account of what I’m drinking to exactly.”

“Sounds like a plan,” John agrees, and he reaches for the notebook, already placed for just this occasion, and begins writing all he can remember of all he’s learned, and all he’s been before.


End file.
